


let's turn this whole town upside-down

by anatomied



Series: send our love to its reward down in hell [5]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 11:43:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8889457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatomied/pseuds/anatomied
Summary: The Fake AH Crew visits a bar, Geoff firmly believes six guys are a criminal empire, and Ryan and Ray play pool.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the weird personal discussions a few friends and I had at a pool table on campus post-finals, and to the in-universe power of alcohol to inspire weird situations.

 

“You listen to me,” Geoff says, waggling a finger. Surprise, surprise - he’s had a few drinks. This means that everyone else is drunk - excluding Ryan and Ray, of course, as is tradition. He raises his voice a little. The crew has gathered in a shitty bar in the middle of Del Perro - because that means they’re the most dangerous people in the room, hands down. Everyone else’s a surfer, a tourist, or not rich enough for Rockford. “You listen to me right the fuck now, Jack. You may want to downplay our accomplishments and say _ooh, we’re sort of playing a two-bit local game_ , but let me tell you. Let me fucking tell you.”

Jack tilts his beer towards him. “Please. Feel free to tell me, Geoff.”

Geoff slams his glass down. Ryan stiffens just slightly in preparation for the glass to crack, but it’s not quite there yet. “We are a fucking enterprise,” he proclaims in front of the whole bar and God. “We’re - a powerhouse. We’re, what’s the word.” He snaps his fingers in the direction of a very drunk and giggly Gavin. “What your people are. You know.”

Gavin slurs out something very drunk that sounds like _don’ know nothin’_.

“Aw,” Ryan smirks. He taps his fingers on the table. “He’s admitting it.”

“Hey,” Gavin manages, aiming his index finger at the spot a good two feet to the left of where Ryan actually is. “Don’t get all, you know, like a mingey prick, Ryan.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Ryan begins. “Are those words? Someone who’s also sober tell me if those are words. I need a second opinion.” This is probably the worst and best version of Gavin to deal with. On one hand, drunk Gavin is less likely to insult Ryan for fucking up words. On the other hand, drunk Gavin also refuses to shut the hell up. Ever. At any point.

“Hey, sober partner in sober crime here,” Ray says distantly, “to confirm that those are not words.” Michael is playing pool against two guys in rumpled dress shirts and Ray’s giving him advice in between shots. “They’re Gavin words, dude. Don’t even ask.”

Gavin raises his voice. “They are damn well words,” he insists. “They’re more words than your words… you - you college guy.”

“Ryan the college guy,” Geoff and Jack say simultaneously. Ryan winces to himself as they clink their beers together.

Right at that moment, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Michael pretty much slam the flimsy pool cue down on the table. He throws his arms up in the air and screams _eat shit_ at the top of his lungs right at the two sullen suits on the other side of the table. Ryan turns just enough to watch as one of them throws a few crumpled bills onto the table and stalks off. Ray scoops up the money and hands a portion of it to Michael as they head back over to the table.

Michael’s laughing even as he picks up his beer again. “Idiots,” he states, raising his glass in the general direction of the two guys. They’re over at the bar.

Ray collapses in the chair next to Ryan. It’s become Ray’s chair everywhere - at restaurants, at the penthouse, and out at backwater bars. “Dude,” he says, adjusting his glasses, “I was doing some hardcore math back there, like trigonometry and shit. Angles, dividing by the cosine, and. Uh. Whatever.”

“Dynamical systems,” Ryan says absentmindedly.

Gavin smacks the table hard. “Those aren’t real people words,” he spits with a vengeance.

Ryan sighs and reaches for a stray paper napkin. He shouldn’t engage. But he can’t help himself. “Has someone got a pen?” he says. Jack holds up a finger and rummages in his coat pockets until he takes out an old ballpoint. Ryan gives him a smile and a nod. He clicks it and sets to writing. “Look, Gavin. Let’s say we have a continuous function, okay, and we call it the function of _x_ , sub _n_. And we say, well, okay, because it’s a continuous function -.”

“Michael,” Gavin hiccups, “Michael, Ryan’s trying to - trying to _math_ me to death.”

“You’re on your own, man,” Michael says. “Fuck math, though, definitely.”

Ray snorts. “Vav. You bought some weird camera worth a hundred thousand bucks so you could film sticky bombs at like, a billion frames per second. I mean, Ryan’s a huge embarrassing nerd, and I damaged my street cred forever by sitting next to him while he said that, but you’re a dumbass.”

“I’m going to get rich off of that,” Gavin mumbles. “Just you watch.”

“You’re already rich,” Michael says, nudging Gavin hard enough where he almost drops his beer with a squeak.

Geoff frowns down at his own beer as if remembering its existence. “What were we even talking about?” he asks Jack. Jack shrugs and signals the bartender for another drink. It’s partly to prevent Geoff from ordering him a shot of tequila, which Geoff has a tendency to do for everyone in the crew except for Ray and Ryan themselves.

Ryan runs a finger around the rim of his own glass of diet Coke. “The word you were looking for, Geoff, was ‘empire’, I think. Like the British empire. Except we’re criminals.”

“See, everyone.” Geoff raises his glass. “That’s what you learn by going to college. A toast to Ryan going to college unlike the rest of us fucking failures.”

“To passing History 105,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. He lifts his glass anyway. Ray shrugs and lifts his water a few lazy inches.

“I love you all so God damn much,” Michael says very sincerely, which isn’t a toast, but it probably counts for more. Gavin lifts his beer, his eyes glazing over even as he goes through with the motion. When everyone tips their drinks back, Gavin also makes a good show of spilling a good third of it down the front of his shirt. He seems not to notice, but Ray snickers softly. It’s a nice sound. A good sound. Not one that you hear very often.

Geoff staggers upwards and goes to belligerently order everyone another round of drinks.

Ryan sits there for a moment as the conversation swells brightly around him. Michael and Ray are making stupid faces at each other across the table. He’s not thinking. He throws his arm over the back of Ray’s chair. And he sees Jack’s eyes flicker to the motion for a moment, lingering, and then he gives Ryan the softest smile he’s ever seen before returning to nursing his drink.

He can _feel_ the way his heart pushes up against his ribs for a second. If his heart gives out here, of all places - it’d be fine. It would be a good place to die.

“What you're doing right here probably looks super gay,” Ray tells him softly.

“Yup.” Ryan agrees and does not move his arm. It takes a few seconds for Ray to lean back again, but it’s like nothing’s happening at all.

Geoff returns a few minutes later with more drinks for everyone. Michael and Gavin cheer. Their heads nearly collide, and Ryan can see Ray mouthing _oh fuck please_ as it almost happens. The collision misses by a centimeter, though, as Michael leans back over to grab his beer and slide it closer to him. _Damn it_ , Ray hisses, and Ryan’s grinning so wide that the corners of his mouth hurt a little.

“I remember,” Geoff says suddenly. “I was trying to tell Jack about how we are a fucking force to be reckoned with. A criminal empire.”

“There are six people here total,” Jack points out.

“A fucking _empire_ ,” Geoff practically yells, his chair scraping back as he stands, “of _crime,_ Jack.” Oh, wow. Too much drinking has definitely become a theme of the night.

“Okay, Moriarty,” Jack says, “sit down.”

“I like what you’re saying, Geoff,” Michael chimes in.

“See,” Geoff points at Michael this time. “See, Michael, this is why I hired you. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders.”

Michael frowns slightly. “You barely even fucking hired me. I was, like, your third choice on the list because I was the only one who agreed to hit up the largest bank in the city immediately with you. And with no questions asked.”

“Michael, shut the hell up,” Geoff weeps softly.

The night progresses as such for a good forty-five minutes. Geoff outlines this huge massive thing that Ryan can only call a theory of their criminal wrongdoing, and how they’re really innovators of doing stupid shit and getting away with it. Like Mythbusters but for robbing the rich, and the poor, and just about everyone. Jack keeps interjecting to correct him on minor details that drunk Geoff is changing, like how they didn’t jump off the top of that one skyscraper and parachute down because Gavin somehow poked a hole in his parachute during the way up, so they took the stairs.

You know. The little things.

Ray gets quieter throughout the night. It takes Ryan about fifteen minutes before he realizes that Ray has pretty much folded in on himself. If he tilts his head a little he can see the light from a DS screen glowing from where Ray’s forehead is basically touching his knees. He’s getting bored. Admittedly, Ryan’s bored too, but it’s nice to hear the crew just shooting the shit while not on the run from the cops.

If it really came down to it, Ryan believes that the rest of the crew could have lived non-criminal lives. Maybe not Geoff purely by background, but it could’ve happened. He’s not sure about him and Ray.

Ryan bumps his shoulder against Ray’s. It takes a second, but Ray peers up at him. “Want to play pool,” Ryan says.

“Fuck no,” Ray replies, and unfolds himself to stand up anyway. _Want to play pool_ might as well be code for _want to do anything except listen to this conversation_. Of course he’s going to say yes

“Where’re you two going?” Geoff asks with an accusation already brewing. He’s probably waiting for them to go get chased by six police cars across Los Santos or something. Chaos and mayhem.

Ryan rolls his shoulders. “We’re going to play pool.”

“What,” Geoff bleats vaguely.

“Pool,” Ray repeats.

By the time they get over to the pool table and Ryan goes about setting everything up, he notices the way Ray’s watching him. With curiosity. “Have you not actually played pool before?” Ryan asks, because now that he thinks of it, for all the times they’ve been out at bars, Ray has never once displayed any interest in playing pool. Usually, it’s Ryan, Jack, and Geoff gathered around the table, taking shots and talking. Michael, Ray, and Gavin are usually doing just about anything else - gathered around an arcade cabinet if there’s one in the bar.

Ray shrugs. “Nope. To be honest, Michael would just point out a ball and a pocket and ask for my opinion on the angle and shit.”

“Wow.” Ryan tries to not be condescending, but from the way Ray rolls his eyes and reaches for the pool cue, he’s failing pretty badly. “Now I’m going to feel bad about kicking your ass so badly.”

“Hey, hey,” Ray snaps. There’s a pause and the tiniest hint of a smile at Ryan. “Fuck you.” He leans over the pool table and angles the cue. He’s evidently picked up on the basics of holding the cue correctly from Michael, and Ryan watches as Ray taps the white ball and sends the rest of them spinning out across the table. “I actually hate doing shit like this,” Ray says even as he holds out the cue. “You know. Like, slow old guy games. Pool and darts and whatever.”

“Don’t disrespect your elders,” Ryan grumbles even as he lines up a shot. He sinks a striped ball into a corner pocket. Here, the game finally starts.

Then Ryan has to stand there and watch as Ray takes aim at one of Ryan’s striped balls into the pocket at the other end of the table. He decides not to say anything. It’s pretty obvious that neither of them are keeping score here. It’s just something to do. Then Ray misses spectacularly, the white ball bounces off of the end of the table, and rolls to a stop in the middle of fucking nowhere. “I have to ask,” Ryan says, unable to help himself. “How can you be a sniper, for God’s sake, and not like pool? It’s just the same thing in some ways, right?”

Ray stares at him. “Did you just compare pool balls to human skulls, or am I getting drunk by contact with everyone else.”

“Yes,” Ryan decides.

Ray circles around the pool table for a moment. “That’s pretty fucked up even by your usual standards, Ry. I don’t know. I guess I just feel like - sniping's easier. Like, this has strategy and shit.”

Ryan gets the feeling they are both circling around the topic here in the same way that they’re moving around the pool table - not quite touching, but holding a very close conversation. Ray adjusts his glasses again and then leans forward to begin aiming for a shot across the table. He doesn’t fuck it up too bad - doesn’t tap it quite hard enough, though, and the ball he’s aiming at stops a half an inch from the pocket.

Ray curses a little. He sticks his arm out across the table in order to give Ryan the cue.

Ryan takes a deep breath. Then he takes a leap of faith and logic all at once. “I’ll guess for you, then, ‘cause we both know you’re shit at admitting anything.”

“Wow, okay, fuck you for real, this time.”

“I never said it was a bad thing.”

“You know, it’s going to be a bad thing when I shove that pool cue right up your ass. Old buddy. Old pal.”

“Stop fucking calling me old and let me talk.”

Ray flips him off and leans against the table, looking at him expectantly.

Ryan sighs and leans back over the pool table. “If I had to guess, I’d say you don’t like pool because there’s not a point. I mean, besides bragging rights, but you get that enough with every video game we ever play. There’s no stakes in pool. Not really. It doesn’t matter. Your job - if we can call it that, but whatever - matters, though.”

“Stop calling me out for being a sad sack of shit,” Ray says, and he’s audibly trying to defuse the situation back down to fun, to something casual.

The thing is - Ryan’s sick and fucking tired of the way they’ve been walking carefully around each other since the balcony, since the heist. At first he was fine with it. But it’s been nearly a month and a half since that heist, since Ray trusted Ryan with that most important thing. And Ray has been carefully and perfectly maintaining that status quo for these six weeks. But it’s nearly midnight and Ryan’s so _tired_ of them doing that thing they always do except for those select moments - talking but not talking, talking around these topics, pulling everything down to some bitter old joke.

“That’s not what I’m calling you,” Ryan says with an exhale. He aims just right and sends two separate striped balls spinning into pockets. “By that metric, I’m also a sad sack of shit. You like what you do. So do I. C’mon. Compared to what we do, and who we are, pool and darts and even Call of Duty, your eternal spouse, seems very fucking small.”

Ray grimaces slightly. “Ryan, can we not do this tonight? I’m just trying to - decompress, and shit, and whatever Jack says I should do more.” It is an obvious lie. Two minutes ago, Ryan could visually see Ray itching for just about anything to happen. He sort of reaches vaguely for the pool cue, his arm not quite managing to extend across the space between them.

They both move at once, and suddenly they are very, very close together. Ray’s got this deer in the headlight looks as his hand shoots out for the pool cue, and Ryan calmly tosses it to his other hand just so it’s out of reach. And then Ray spits out _motherfucker_ and his hands spasm into fists at his side. It’s maybe the second time Ray’s actually called Ryan that and meant it, not as a joke.

The first time was - well. When Ryan got himself shot a few times on a heist, not a big deal, nothing he hadn’t gotten before, and he was a little slow on getting down a side alley and Ray had been screaming into everyone’s ears, _you dumb fuck, you son of a bitch, you get out of here and let me take the fucking shot_ -

This is not that. This is Ray actually kind of pissed off with him, directly.

“Hey,” Ryan says gently. It sounds like he won’t escalate this - but when has he ever done anything but escalate, with everything? “You want to hit me, I would not blame you in the slightest.”

Ray looks up at him. There’s nothing there. Ryan can imagine what he’s doing - weighing the costs against the benefits, thinking about the way Ryan broke a man’s arm in four places during the last heist for the deadly sin of almost shooting Michael in the chest. And thinking about catharsis, maybe. Because Ryan did not say he wouldn’t swing back.

“The fuck’s wrong with you,” Ray finally demands. His hands loosen and relax from fists.

Ryan shrugs and places the pool cue on the table. Evidently they may not be needing it. “Lots of shit, probably. But in all seriousness. You want me to start something. Let me know.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. A bar fight. Antagonize the shit out of some cops. Do something stupid and dangerous because we both know that’s the only shit that matters. That’s the fucking currency.”

Ray looks at him for a moment. And it’s there in the back of his eyes - that moment in the car, that moment on the balcony. Apparently he finally gets what Ryan’s been trying to tell him this whole time. What they deal in is what matters. Everything else is the in-between, the interlude. The slow nights like this one are good. But the fast days are better.

And Ryan thinks _fuck it, fuck all of this,_ leans over, and kisses Ray.

It’s quick, and small, and barely anything. And this is it - make or break, yes or no. A stupid and dangerous thing, one of the R&R Connection'sthings, is what he’s offering Ray right here. Ray kisses him back maybe half on accident, both of them frozen in some awkward position where they aren’t touching anywhere else.

Ryan leans back. He rocks back on his heels, watching Ray’s face.

The number of emotions Ray skips through in about two seconds is probably around eight. It starts at outrage. But then his smile grows. “Okay,” he says softly. “okay, I get it, you’re completely fucking crazy and I’m the only one who gets it. That’s what this is.”

“Or you’re just as crazy,” Ryan points out.

“No way,” Ray says. “Pool balls and human skulls, man. I can’t beat that.”

“You haven’t tried,” Ryan smirks, and Ray punches him hard in the shoulder. “But according to most people, actually being okay with kissing me of all people would rank pretty high up there.”

“Yeah,” Ray breathes, and he’s watching Ryan’s lips this time. Which Ryan is going to take as a personal victory. “Yeah, fucking fair. But also, fuck most people, ‘cause I’m doing it again after I get my ass kicked at pool.”

Ryan picks up the pool cue and holds it out. And after a second Ray takes it. Sure, it’ll be one distracted game of pool between them, but neither of them can leave a game unfinished. They’re lucky that the rest of their table didn’t notice what was going on behind them, but either way the crew's probably too drunk to care.

Maybe Ray or Ryan will let them know. But they probably won’t, not tonight.

Some things stay theirs forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Commandante" by the Mountain Goats. Who could've guessed.


End file.
